


He Gave me a Gift Made of Blood and Flesh

by SpookyArtThot



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Aftercare, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Beating, Comfort by abuser, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Lima Syndrome, Non-binary character, Other, Possessive Behavior, Water Torture, Watersports
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:01:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29554614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpookyArtThot/pseuds/SpookyArtThot
Summary: You (derogatory), a regular (rude) person, manage to actually piss off John Wick.He hurts you and then feels bad about it after.This is canon divergent from the first movie around the part at the gas station.
Relationships: John Wick/Reader, John Wick/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	He Gave me a Gift Made of Blood and Flesh

**Author's Note:**

> I've been uh... Working through some personal things and I guess this is what I needed to vent.
> 
> It's... Been a lot, and this is also a lot. John is not nice in this fic, and even when he is acting nice, the whole situation is still entirely fucked up.

Today absolutely sucks. You'd lost the key to your apartment and were going to have to wait all day for a locksmith, your hours got cut at work, and to put the cherry on top, you were starving and craving comfort food all of which were… in your apartment.

So of course you ride out to the little gas station down the road. You can't risk being too far from your place, what with the locksmith giving you a nasty five hour window to wait. Knowing your luck they'd show up early, find you not there, and then happily fuck off without calling you.

It's no surprise that you're a bit rushed when you get there. Immediately you grab a giant cup and fill it up to the brim, mind halfway down the snack aisle until you run into something solid.

Time drags into slow motion for maximum effect as your soda parts from your grip and you bounce off the wall of solid human mass in front of you. The liquid makes a shimmering arc as the lid pops off in an explosion of so much cheap plastic. Then suddenly everything else runs to catch up as you finally take in the entire scene unfolding in front of you.

In your haste you have spilled your drink all over some poor guy trying to carefully get around you. You should apologize for the fuck up- you know you should. He's wearing a really nice brown leather jacket and it's clearly ruined- not to mention the sweet sticky drink is dripping from his hair and gotten his dark shirt and pants absolutely soaked.

"What the fucking fuck," you growl, unable to work the shape of the words 'I'm so sorry', from your lips.

He mutters a soft apology, feet shuffling impatiently like he still just wants to get around you. Like you hadn't just soaked him in your fucking drink and he has better places to be. 

Fucking asshole.

You follow his movements, effectively blocking his path.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going, prick? You owe me another soda."

The man remains mostly impassive, save for the slight flare of his nostrils and the subtle clenching of his fists- you might as well be a minor inconvenience.

Later you will remember this moment- lament it, rue it. Him, staring at _you_ , who is _smaller_ , _delicate_ by comparison even, and just a regular fucking joe and has not the slightest idea who you are fucking with.

He finally mutters 'sure,' in that low husky voice of his, but it doesn't satisfy you- why won't he get mad?

So you push a bit more, asking, "What did you say, prick?"

His eyes flick with some sort of emotion, but he does not give you what you want. Instead he stares into you, then through you, like you aren't worth his time. This man who is soaked in soda and looks despondent as fuck- pathetic really, just says again, "sure, why not."

The clear brush off makes you want to yell at him, throw a fucking tantrum because.... Because… fuck.

Instead you follow him to the counter, he buys you another 30 oz, pays for some gas, then leaves before you can attempt to start more shit. Immediately you deflate as you grab the cup, but you're not thirsty or hungry anymore. 

You step outside and catch sight of him filling the tank of a pristine dodge charger, his shirt and jacket are off and you find yourself swallowing as you take in how thick and cut he is- he looks good- all those tats and… are those scars? 

He catches your eye for a second and, almost as though against your will, you throw the empty 30 oz cup in the trash as you keep eye contact. It's pathetic and petty, and you swear he snorts. He shakes his head in disapproval before going back to filling his tank without paying you any more mind.

So focused on how pissed you are you almost get side swiped by a car full of young looking slav douchebags peeling out of the gas station. 

"Fuck!" You shout, heart racing, as they holler and laugh. Fucking dick heads.

Defeated, you make your way to your beat up car and get ready to take off. The only thing you have to look forward to now is a long wait and an empty stomach.

You sit in your car for a long time just fuming instead. Finally you punch the steering wheel, turn on the ignition, and then leave. Unfortunately you must really be out of it as you mindlessly drive down the road on autopilot. It only takes a second of you looking away, because the next thing you know you've hit someone's car.

A familiar car.

A dodge charger.

Aww shit.

Even though you hadn't been driving that fast it's obvious you totaled the frame. Shit shit shit- and to make matters worse, the dick head from earlier hasn't hopped out to murder you on the spot.

Panic sets in and you throw your emergency lights on- it isn't a busy or particularly commonly used road, but the last thing you needed was to have some jackass plow into your car too.

Just as you're approaching the car the man throws his door open and steps out. He's still shirtless, but now he's sporting a bloody gash along his head, and holding a- was that a fucking puppy?

"Shit, are you ok man? I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I was…"

"Shut up," he says sharply, it's such a simple statement, but it holds so much intensity you find yourself quieting instantly.

Carefully he sets the puppy down, tells it to stay, then turns back to face you with a truly grim expression. You want to keep babbling out apologies, you want to back away, you want to do anything but stand there.

Just looking at him though, despite how ridiculous he looks while shirtless and striding toward you like death himself, you know you're fucked and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it. 

"Please," you finally manage to whisper, looking up at him as he looms over you.

He huffs, shakes his head, then knocks you the fuck out.

\--

You wake to the mother of all headaches. Of course, wake is a strong word in this case- it's more like stumble into consciousness with the grace of a drunkard.

"Gahh," you groan, going to cradle your head in your hands as a small comfort. Except you can't, the offending appendages seem to be firmly tied behind your back. 

Well shit. 

Your eyes crack open to blurry surroundings and you try to remember what the hell happened.

Ah, the guy with the puppy. The guy you hit.

Well this was a really unorthodox way of exchanging insurance. You try to stay calm against the quickly rising tide of panic- just your luck you'd pick a fight with a serial killer.

You attempt to blink away the blurry haze and get your bearings, you can tell you're in a living room lying on your side on top of a very nice couch. Not much else comes to mind that can help you.

There is a soft tapping of feet across hardwood and you find your mouth has gone dry as you look down. He's barefoot, and as you shift to look up at his hovering presence you find him in sweats and a tight white cotton shirt. He looks freshly showered, and the gash on his head has been tended to.

The man crosses his arms over his chest as he stares down at you. You aren't sure what to make of his dark gaze, but you know whatever he is thinking can't be good.

"I uh, gotta get back to my apartment.. The… the locksmith is coming," you stumble out, half babbling like a damn fool. You might be mildly concussed- getting knocked out is like- soooo bad for you.

He looks surprised by your comment, and somewhere in you deluded half conscious state a ray of hope rears its head that he might actually let you go because of the locksmith.

He crushes that hope with quick efficiency.

"That's the last thing you should be worrying about," he warns in a soft deep voice as he leans over you, gingerly grasping your chin in one large hand, "I'm going to hurt you, I'm going to take my time, and I'm going to do it well."

A sluice of ice coats your insides, it's almost enough to draw some semblance of coherency loose from your hazy thoughts. Not enough that you can bring yourself to put up a struggle when he lifts you like a sack of potatoes and throws you over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. There is nothing you can do but groan at the way the world spins to catch up to where he has repositioned you.

The absolute helplessness of your situation begins to drive home- even if you could put up much of a fight with your arms bound as such, he'd probably just drop you and drag you instead. Through your daze you are starting to feel the building anxiety.

The build up doesn't last long.

Without much preamble he drops you in a tub of ice cold water. Literal ice cubes are slipping into the collar of your shirt and the loose ends of your jeans. Now this, this gets to you. You shout in surprise, body convulsing at the rapid unexpected drop in temperature. Pure instinct kicks in and you're thrashing, yelling- and in your wild animal-brain attempts to eject yourself from the tub, you're choking on water.

What's worse is that in your useless flailing you catch a glimpse of his face and it's terrifying. He does not smile, nor sneer, nor show anger. Instead there is a hunger, a desire, and it's all lean and predatory. 

This is not a man.

He reaches for you, grabbing you by your hair and pulling you above the water level enough to breathe. Your teeth chatter and your lungs feel like ice crystals have taken root in them. It's keeping you from taking a deep breath, yet still you struggle to inhale, wheezing between your clicking teeth.

Then he submerges you once more like an old school baptism. Water rushes to fill the empty cavern of your mouth, flowing down into your throat, your chest. There is nothing holy here, just the stabbing cold you are still woefully unprepared for. It fills you and you barely have a chance to exhale it out before he is hauling you up back above the water.

Little wheezing gasps pass through your blue lips and it feels like god granting you succour. You can't take a deep breath still, but you also have no control over the autonomous gasping coming from you now. 

Desperately you try to catch your breath in this small interim he has granted- you're too disoriented to do much but bend to his will, which is merciless. He dunks you once more mid inhale, one hand in your hair, the other pressed firmly to your sternum. He watches with that predatory hunger, his expression never faulting, even as he is most likely freezing too. 

Water invades your mouth again and you barely manage to clamp it shut before inhaling it. Your body begs you to breath, you want it so badly- the pain in your lungs grows oh so heavy you think they might burst.

He pulls you up, then dunks you again quickly with the surety of a pistoning machine. It throws you off and you don't even have time to savor a gasping inhale. He does this several times in quick succession.

Each time you are pulled back under is like the first, fresh and agonizing. You want to not be here, you want the suffering to stop, but he seems to have this down to an art. There is no adjusting to his rhythm, if anything every time your brain tries to sink into the comforting monotony of shock he holds you down a little longer, makes your chilled lungs burn with the pressure of trying not to inhale.

He grinds you down until there is just the cold breathless off-pattern that he follows without fail- until he doesn't.

Just as easily as he had dropped you in the bath, he pulls you free to toss you on to the bathroom floor. It should be a relief, but you're so fucking cold that your skin burns in protest against the room temperature air. Every inch of you hurts, from your skin to your insides.

He kicks you and you hack up a gout of water as you slide from your back to your side to face him.

"Let me help you get warm."

Absently you stare up at him, soaked, half frozen, and helpless. Your mind blanks as he begins to slide down the waistband of his sweatpants and slips out his flaccid cock. The band stops to sit just under his testicles and you have no idea what the fuck he has planned.

It's only for a second that you close your eyes, but then there is overwhelming warmth and it takes you far too long to realize he's peeing on you. Instant revulsion courses through you, yet despite your disgust, it's warm- so warm. Not in the overwhelming way that the room temperature chaffes your skin. No, of course it's piecemeal level comforting against the sheer face of the ice clinging to your skin.

You want to scream and curse at him, but instead you can only wallow breathless on the bathroom floor while he pisses on you. The only thing you can think to do is keep your eyes closed as a last bastion of sanity.

When he finishes up you clench your jaw in anticipation of what may come next. It leaves you wide open for him to kick your side once more, the meat of his foot digging deep into your ribs. He uses the momentum to roll you onto your back and you let out a weak sound of pain. He mounts you just above your hips and you shake with an anticipatory mix of anxiety and fear. Or is that cold?

"Look at me," he says so softly that you find yourself helpless but to comply.

Your eyes slip open to see him hunched over you, his dark gaze made for you alone. There is a long moment of silence, then he pulls back his fist and clocks you in the jaw. Dizziness once again overwhelms you as your head cracks back against the bathroom tile. He doesn't stop, his fist pummeling you, and it hurts so much more now. Every blow is a new bloom of agony until you feel very very far away. All you can really comprehend now is the thick thump of flesh on flesh and the sour tang of copper in the air.

\--

You awaken in an unfamiliar bed.

There is something obstructing one of your eyes from opening and you feel as though you have had the wrath of God laid upon your body. Everything hurts- your skin, your muscles- even your insides. Why are you even alive?

Carefully, after much mental negotiating and cajoling, you manage to sit up and lean against the bed frame. For some reason your arms are no longer bound, though truth be told you don't think you could get up off the bed if you tried, much less put up a fight. For a short moment you look down at your wrists and find them torn and bruised. Slowly you turn your head, and to your surprise, you find a bottle of codeine-Tylenol and a glass of water sitting on the nightstand. 

The prescription, you find after squinting at it for ages, belongs to someone named Helen Wick. You cannot find a good enough reason not to take the damn pills. If they're poison or real- the amount of pain you're in is just starting to make itself known now that you are getting less groggy and you really don't want to be feeling it.

You follow the prescription's instructions and take one.

\-- you must have passed out again.

This time you feel much better, if a bit like jello- or maybe pudding? Your stomach rumbles in protest and you can't remember the last time you ate. One of your eyes is still obscured, by a bandage, you think. Thick gauze is wrapped around your head, and you marvel at how the bandages feel under the pads of your fingers.

On top of that, you feel clean, warm- you're wearing an oversized shirt and grey sweats that definitely aren't yours. Had he… cleaned you up?

In your slow observation of you and your surroundings you find your tormentor sitting beside the bed. He seems to have pulled up a chair and fallen asleep in it- as though he had been guarding you. What a fucking weird guy.

As though he can feel your eye on him, his slip open. He takes you in with slow blinks and even slower movements. You still flinch back when he sits up straight in his chair. For a moment you swear a look of guilt steals over his face, but then it's gone in an instant.

"You've been out a while, you need to eat." 

You stare at him like he's speaking another language, unable to comprehend what he means- why would he care to feed you? He doesn't elaborate further on his meaning, instead he gets up and leaves. You're ashamed to admit you jerk and cower when he stands up. Thankfully he ignored your hindbrained reaction and had left without a word.

He comes back after an indeterminable amount of time- your brain is mush- though from the codeine or from him beating in your skull, it's hard to say. In his hands he holds a tray and what appears to be a bowl of broth sitting next to a fresh glass of water.

Instantly your stomach twists with more insistent hunger. You try not to show it.

With such gentle controlled movements he places the tray on the bed. You stare at the bowl of broth longingly, it's not that you don't want it, but it seems like so much effort to reach for it and feed yourself. Repeatedly you try to command your hands to take hold of the tray, but they just won't move.

"Can I help you?" He asks slowly, softly. You turn to look at him and find him standing back from the bed, his face is blank and he holds himself in an unthreatening manner.

A fission of derision wells up from deep inside you despite the clouded empty headedness. You want so badly to snarl out 'no'. Instead you make a weak sound, your throat struggles until you manage to whisper, "please."

His movements are pronounced and easy to track as he takes the tray from the bed. Carefully he pulls it into his lap and spoons some of the broth out to feed you. 

It's only lukewarm and mild, but somehow it's the best damn thing you have ever tasted in your entire life. Although that's probably the hunger and drugs talking, it does not stop you from eagerly taking what he has to offer. You think you might cry when the bowl empties, instead you just look down at your lap and try to regain your composure.

"Hey," he murmurs and your head jerks to look at him. Immediately the world spins and you can't quite focus on anything. He remains patient, and when you finally can make him out, he is carefully holding out the glass of water- though now there is a straw in it.

You drink it down rapidly with zero self control. It's bad enough that he has to pull the straw away from you when you begin to gag on the liquid. He looks conflicted, one hand reaching for you, stopping when you flinch between coughing, then pulling back to his side.

He stands then, tray in hand- which still has the half full glass of water. 

"Try to get some rest," he says, then leaves you alone with your thoughts for a very long time.

  
  



End file.
